


Four A.M.

by semi_automatic



Series: Am I Painting The Picture That's In My Brain? [2]
Category: Bandom, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Blurryface, Comfort, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Hallucinations, M/M, Psychosis, Sad, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_automatic/pseuds/semi_automatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh still texting him, over and over and Tyler cannot respond, Josh is trying to distract him but how in the world can he be distracted from yelling, from a knife being pushed into his hands.</p><p>Tyler’s whole fucking body and world and mind and life seem fucking wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong.</p><p>This couldn’t be fixed with distractions or breathing exercises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four A.M.

**Author's Note:**

> based on an all-night battle with my anxiety and dysphoria and hallucinations

Empty empty empty.

Tyler’s chest is fucking _empty_ as he struggles to get in air, gasping and choking and lying on the bed and _alone_.

Dragging and causing _red_ to spring up over soft breast tissue, damaged damaged damaged

Tyler hugs himself tightly, begging and praying to have someone _here_.

His phone is lighting up next to him on the bed, reassurances from Josh that he isn’t alone and it’s okay and to breathe, but Josh is across the country and Tyler is fucking sobbing and fighting for air and _can a person drown in emptiness?_

At four in the morning, Tyler is realizing this is a possibility.

Exposed exposed exposed.

He drags covers over his body, wrapping himself, making sure there were no holes, no holes where _scary bad black figures could reach in and tell him bad things._

Telling him to claw his skin and take pills and hang himself and cut up his arms real good.

Tyler plays music to block it out.

Somehow, music _hurts_.

Ripping out earbuds, met with _screaming_ silence, screaming voices that _only_ lived in his head.

Josh still texting him, over and over and Tyler cannot respond, Josh is trying to distract him but how in the world can he be distracted from yelling, from a knife being pushed into his hands.

Tyler’s whole fucking body and world and mind and life seem fucking _wrong_ and _wrong_ and _wrong_ and **_wrong_**.

This couldn’t be fixed with distractions or breathing exercises.

Tyler hardly blinks as he drags dull metal harshly against his skin.

Not enough to break.

Just enough to hurt.

_Tyler hurts_.

Red lines on pale arms and breasts and he’s scared he’s scared he’s so mother fucking scared and he shakes and he’s sorry.

He just wants to not be alone.

**  
He just wants to feel right.**


End file.
